


Excellence du Malheur

by kalevalaSage



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Past Child Abuse, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 15:25:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalevalaSage/pseuds/kalevalaSage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marius knows neither how to reconcile the ghosts of his life as a Gillenormand, nor How to Talk to Girls at Parties.  Cosette aids him in both endeavours.  Rated for high T-/low M-level triggering plus a handful of mentions of sex, and written for Jamie/Bromir/Thorsdey for the Miserable Holidays Fanworks Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Excellence du Malheur

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gayfishman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayfishman/gifts).



> Requested Version(s) of Canon: **_the novel_** , the musical, the 2012 film  
> Requested Temporal Setting(s): Canon-Era, _**Modern-Era**_ , Other AU settings/time periods  
> Requested Characters: Grantaire, Combeferre, _**Marius Pontmercy**_ , _**Cosette Fauchelevent**_ , Gavroche Thenardier, Enjolras  
> Requested Pairings: Enjolras/Grantaire, **_Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy_**  
>  AU notes (if provided): medieval au, space au, superhero au, fairytale au, apocalypse au  
> Preferred Maximum rating: Mature - "This is for content with adult themes (sex, violence, etc.) that isn't as graphic as explicit-rated content."  
> Preferred Content to avoid: Rape/non-con, Underage  
> Preferred Content to include: fluff, angst, misunderstandings

It all begins when Marius Pontmercy must, in his want for a sufficiently believable excuse to encounter, ogle, and do his worst to woo one hapless and heavily-stalked Cosette Fauchelevent, occupy himself otherwise.

 

The prospect isn’t so bad, truly: he can expect to see her later this evening at Joly and Bossuet’s Yule party, and until then, he’ll give in to his theoretical best friend’s long-suffered nagging about catching up over lunch.  While it’s only been about a month since Marius moved out of Courfeyrac’s place and into an apartment of his own, there’s no replicating the emotional intimacy of two men sharing a single-roomed living space—and while they’ve both missed that particular closeness, one of the factors motivating Marius’s move was the guilty sensation that he had intruded upon his friend’s privacy, imposed upon his (vast) sense of hospitality, and above all, impeded him from having sex.

 

At very least, Marius has since learned the last of these wasn’t attributable to his residence on Courf’s top mattress, but to a crush—that is, if he’s extrapolating correctly from the fact that their discussion now alternates between animated whining about politics and Cosette in one case, and about politics and Combeferre in the other.

 

“Much to my chagrin, infatuation isn’t particularly conducive to ending my dry spell, as far as casual sex is concerned,” Courfeyrac confesses as the conversation veers toward the latter, waggling his eyebrows when Marius ignores this cue to commiserate, biting off an unimpressed mouthful of his sandwich instead.

 

“I’m still straight, if that’s what you ask by your wiggly-face,” he responds once he’s swallowed.  Courfeyrac hums.  “Also, I’m beginning to think this is the sort of thing a best mate ought to hear about _before_ it reaches fever pitch and your dick has gone and gotten all frustrated about it.  Why is this news to me?”

 

Courfeyrac blushes.  “I was embarrassed!”

 

“I don’t know, Combeferre isn’t _that_ objectively unattractive,” Marius retorts, voice steely and a little appalled.  Courfeyrac splutters.

 

“What—I don’t—no, I didn’t mean it like _that_ , he’s _gorgeous_ , and superlatively intelligent to boot, I’m not embarrassed of _him_ I’m embarrassed of _the intensity of my feelings, they just crept up on me, the bastards_ —anyway how’s Cosette?”

 

“Beautiful.  Unattainable.  I’ve only known her name for a week, but I want to know it forever, and whisper it to myself, and scream it to her…”  This, Marius can do, can ramble on about his lady-love, can make amicable, if nonsensical, conversation with Courfeyrac.  “Oh my god, Courf, I think I’m in love, holy Jesus, please, how do I ask her out?”

 

Twenty-three minutes later, Marius has acquired a game plan for the party and Courfeyrac has acquired a vow—on Marius’s father’s grave—that the other gentleman won’t chicken out, and their comfortable banter, Marius thinks, could last forever.

 

\--

 

It doesn’t last long.  As he and Courf duck out of the deli and into the winter, falling back into their easy kinship, their steps trace the familiar route to Courfeyrac’s brownstone.  It doesn’t occur to either that Marius doesn’t live there anymore until they arrive, at which point they exchange laughs and comments about Good Old Times (hyperbolically), Are You Trying to Get Invited Inside to Sleep With Me (facetiously), and Maybe We Should Get a Place Together Again If We Continue to Be Single (completely seriously).

 

And then Marius asks the time.

 

“Three o’clock exactly,” replies the dandy after a glance at his omnipresent pocketwatch.  “ _It’s 3 PM, do you know where your children are?_ ”

 

Something stirs within Marius at this intonation.  He blinks.

 

“Well,” says Courfeyrac, at his friend’s hesitation, “Thank you for walking me home, kind gentleman, regardless of whether or not you possess designs on this fair maid.”

 

He gestures toward his body and mimes voluptuousness, but somehow the gag isn’t funny anymore.  Marius remains silent.

 

“Uh, I should probably head up and get ready for Bossuet and Joly’s thing,” Courfeyrac intones awkwardly.

 

“…Yeah.”

 

“I’ll see you there?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“…You all right?”

 

“Oh.  Uh.  Yeah, thanks.”

 

Courfeyrac, being Courfeyrac, is inclined to bring Marius up into their once-shared flat, forcing him to divulge and dispense the dynamite from his mine of a mind; however, Marius thwarts this plan by turning suddenly away and marching briskly in the general direction of his home.

 

And then, because he fancies it ironic, Courfeyrac begins to mutter to himself under his breath.  “Damned if I ever thought I’d worked the absent-mindedness out of that one.”

 

\--

 

Marius’s mind is anything but absent.

 

_Do you know where your children are?_

“Fuck this shit,” Marius hisses, dedicating an unwonted amount of effort into ensuring his footsteps don’t relent.

 

_Do you know where your children are?_

 

“I’m going to get home, I’m going to bathe, I’m going to dress in those slacks Courf says accentuate my thighs, I’m going to walk two blocks north to Joly’s place, I’m going to go to the party.” The act of planning aloud, Marius finds, makes the plans more real.  “I’m going to talk to Cosette.”

 

_Do you know where your children are?_

 

It is at this juncture that Marius admits to himself that he has been having nightmares.

 

The admission isn’t as cathartic as it is factual.  As far as nightmares go, these haven’t insisted terribly on being acknowledged, and Marius hasn’t been actively repressing them: rather, they’ve dissipated at his daydreams of Cosette, and, in the (rare) absence of those, have swiftly fallen victim to forgetfulness after waking.  He couldn’t recall them if he tried.  But if their ghosts had departed suddenly, this is their equally fleet-footed return.

 

The nightmares are a blur of not-strictly-factual memories and not-strictly-possible speculations, but Marius has never been much of a realist.  A phantom Georges Pontmercy keels over and crawls to him, reaching for and never grasping his ankles, before finally collapsing into his death, over and over and over (he didn’t see his father die); Luc-Esprit Gillenormand arrives at his firm as an unwitting client from whom he has to duck under a desk, crawl into a janitorial closet, and stifle the noise of his shocked tears lest he alert him to his presence (Gillenormand has no business contracting a translator); Cosette Fauchelevent agrees to go out with him, grinning and grinning and grinning until her face splits and her skin peels and her body is shed to reveal an absurdly sexual Tante Gillenormand.

 

This moment is akin to being entrenched in all those terrors at one instant.

 

Plus this newest source of alarm, which, unlike the others, is unshakable in its truth: to have left home at four twenty-seven on the morning of September second, two thousand and twelve, and to attempt to jettison the panics of his past, and to make it, nearly, into a state of psychological stability some months later; and then for it to be Christmas, and to receive, late one night when emptying the mailbox, an apparently well-meaning parcel, gift-wrapped and containing some hundreds of dollars enclosed with a card inscribed in the comely cursive of one Tante Gillenormand, asking, _It’s 11 PM.  Do you know where your children are?_

Clearly she had, indeed.

 

Upon reaching his apartment, Marius prepares a bath for himself; disrobing, he notices his hands trembling.  Further inspection reveals his entire body is shaking, and has probably been shaking since he left Courfeyrac’s.  Marius decides against bathing, fearing he may accidentally drown.

 

He doesn't bathe.  He showers, and in so doing, begins to depart from his plan.

 

\--

 

It is more or less a miracle that he makes it to the party at all.

 

He’s regained, to some degree, his presence of mind; beyond that, he’s thrown up a blanket of social normativity to cover whatever still lacks.  He has, after all, promised Courfeyrac he’d be in attendance—and that he’d “not chicken out,” whatever that might entail.  Indeed, as soon as he’s shed his coat and hat, Courfeyrac embraces him with the fondness of either a man who has just returned from a decade in exile or a best friend.

 

“I was concerned for you when you left earlier—is everything going all right?”  It is not to Courfeyrac’s deficit, but to Marius’s credit, that he hasn’t caught wind of his anxieties at all, as becomes apparent when his voice drops to a hush.  “Are we still on for asking Cosette out?”

 

“Go pursue your own fellow,” Marius pouts, the last of his outwardly apparent melancholy evaporating with a huge grin, which transforms into a smile and nod of greeting when the man himself walks by—motivating Courfeyrac’s eyes to light up once as he conspicuously devours the sight of Combeferre in a slightly tight button-down, and then again when he spots the two glasses of eggnog in his hands.

 

“Hey, Marius!  I’m looking for Courf—“

 

“Give us a moment, ‘Ferre, I’m—“  Courfeyrac interjects.

 

“Of course.  Just—when you’re free, if you’re interested—care to join me for a drink?”

 

At Courfeyrac’s eager nod, Combeferre stalks out of the room, all long limbs and gracefulness.  “That shirt, though,” he breathes.

 

“I mean I’ve never seen the appeal of a nicely-silhouetted pectoralis, myself, especially when you can have _breasts_ instead, but if that’s the kind of thing you’re into…”

 

“You didn’t answer my question.  Are you all right?”

 

“Yes—fine— _go_.”

 

Courfeyrac, God bless him, looks askance at Marius one last time, and even waits for him to make a shooing gesture before he follows Combeferre out of the room.

 

\--

 

In spite of all appearances, Marius continues to feel unsettled—if not because he’s currently panicking, then for fear that he’ll be vulnerable to similar episodes evermore.  It is, however, worth it—he’s caught sight of one very attractive dirty blond almost four times now (he’s not certain if making accidental physical contact after Bossuet tripped over his foot counts), and has almost worked up the nerve to talk to her twice.  Almost.

 

He’s mulling over the scant details he’s learned about her, mining for an overture to conversation: she got her undergrad in religion last year before joining the activist organization where Bossuet, Bahorel, and Enjolras work—one of the nonprofits that patronize Courfeyrac and Marius’s translation agency, which specializes in facilitating communication between NGOs and developing countries.  Also, she’s pretty; and that’s all he knows, aside from her address, which he absolutely positively does not possess.

 

How to begin a conversation?  There’s too much shit in his life for flirtation.

 

“Send my regards to Courfeyrac, but I can’t do this right now,” he whispers to himself.

 

A little over an hour later, Marius somehow finds himself rocking back and forth in the foetal position, nursing a warm beer.  The kitchen has become the nucleus of the party, and Marius is huddled in the corner of the next room, enjoying the warmth of the fireplace from the corner into which he retreated to avoid seeing Enjolras and Grantaire make out on the couch a few minutes ago.  He’s had a bit of small talk with the few individuals he feels comfortable enough to approach, but that has inevitably collapsed under the weight of his less-than-scintillating personality and predilection for misinterpreting sarcasm.  To approach Cosette now, and in this state of mind, would be tantamount to social suicide, he feels.

 

And then, because the gods have a sense of humour, _he’s_ approached by _her_.

 

“Hi!  You looked lonely over here!  Everything all right?”

 

Marius isn’t so much woken from his reverie as he is electrically jump-started by the somersaulting of his stomach.  “H-Hi.”

 

“Marius, right?”

 

“Yes!  Um.  Euphrasie Cosette Fauchelevent?”  It is beyond him that a woman so apparently composed of sunlight and smiles might _know his name_.  It is equally beyond him that, perhaps in a parallel universe, he either might not know hers or might not think to greet her with _all of it_.

 

Suppressing a giggle, Cosette beams at him affirmatively.  “Just Cosette.  You didn’t answer my question—are you all right?”

 

Marius blinks.  And exhales.  “Yes,” he tries, shakily.  Cosette smiles again, but wanly this time.

 

“So I was in the midst of advertising a game of Cards Against Humanity, but upon further consideration and in light of recent developments,” (here, she winks), “I think I want to drop out.  I’ll be right back.”

 

In the three and a half minutes it takes Cosette to announce the party game to the rest of the household, let Joly know he doesn’t need to deal her a hand anymore, and give Bahorel a quick peck on the cheek when he protests he was really looking for this chance to corrupt her, it dawns upon Marius that melodramatic disclosures to attractive acquaintances are the emotional equivalent of premature ejaculation.  He resolves not to angst at her.

 

And subsequently loses that resolve as she returns.

 

“Hi,” she repeats, plopping herself down on the hearth.  “So, tell me, what’s up?”

 

“Fuck Christmas,” he begins, a little too haggardly for the flippant confidence he had hoped to convey, “and fuck my family.”

 

Cosette says nothing, but doesn’t visibly balk.

 

“I’m, um, orphaned, and estranged, and also a survivor of violent abuse.”  He laughs hollowly, but it does little to lighten the mood.  “It’s whatever.  Christmas is triggering and family sucks.“

 

Cosette’s perfect eyebrows arch.  “That’s rough; I’m sorry.”  Marius snorts.  “Do you want,” she begins again, gingerly, “to talk about it?”

 

“I’m on the fence about that one,” Marius confesses, and it’s the most sincere utterance he’s made yet in this conversation.  “Though, to skirt the risk of my devolvement into egocentric rambling, I must reciprocate your question—how are you?”

 

Cosette could charge for her gentle smiles, Marius thinks, and he’d be happily bankrupt in a day.

 

“I’m doing pretty well.  I also happen to be coming to terms with the fact that I was orphaned?  Which, I know, odd thing to mention to spur on a party conversation, but since you mentioned.  It doesn’t get me down, though.”

 

“Oh,” Marius squeaks.  “Maybe sometimes I forget I don’t have a monopoly on tragedy.”

 

Cosette frowns.  “You don’t reek of solipsism, so I think you’re fine.  Trauma is relative,” she chirps, “and yours seems pretty objectively significant, anyway.”  It’s trite, but as soon as it leaves her mouth he’s warmed, like he had been waiting on those words without knowing it.  The remaining tension in his chest evaporates and he thinks maybe he can put his anxiety into words, and be heard, and be healed, maybe, if she’s willing.

 

“Thank you,” he breathes.

 

“I’m sorry if I’m being forward or impertinent,” she blurts, and Marius is all of a sudden sure he’s in love.

 

“It’s fine,” he with as much grace as he can muster.  “Your powers of empathy are spectacular, and I’m sorry to have troubled them with my downtrodden mood.”

 

“As you say,” she says, “it’s fine.  Plus, it totally doesn’t take an empath to read your distress.  I’m glad to be of aid, or at least try.”  She holds out her arms, and Marius sinks into them, happily, willingly, predictably.

 

“Thank you,” Marius repeats, this time into her hair.  “I think I’d like to get to know you?  If that’s okay.  If that’s how one asks.  Maybe beyond this party.”

 

Cosette pulls out of their hug and beams.  “I’d love to.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, there’s an allusion in the description. But Cosette wasn’t an alien, so it’s all good, right?


End file.
